Trial Error
by alanwolfmoon
Summary: House does something stupid to prove a medical fact. It turns out it was really a stupid thing to do.


House sighed, limping into the building.

He limped to the list of offices, running his finger down, until he found the one he wanted.

A long elevator ride later, he was limping down another hall, a crabby expression on his face.

Place had too many damned hallways.

Finally, he reached the office he wanted, and pushed the door open.

A dark-haired man looked at him, frowning a bit.

"Dr. House, right?"

House nodded.

"I didn't press charges. I don't know what he told you, but I was very fair."

House nodded, "he told me you took Hadley's results out of the trial and will come after him if he tries to work any other studies."

Schmitt nodded, "that's what happened. I doubt you're here because you think I was being unfair…"

House shook his head, "you were more than fair to Foreman. It's all those Huntington's patients you're giving brain tumors along with their dose of false hope that you're screwing over."

He sighed, setting down his pen.

"I can't admit her results. None of the other patients had it."

House nodded, "Foreman said you're not even going to look into it. See if any other patients in the other trails for this or similar drugs developed tumors."

"If one of the patients in my study that I can trust the results of—"

"Every single patient in your study is much farther along than Thirteen was."

"Thirteen?"

"It's a nickname. Hadley."

He sighed, "so?"

"The drug could be more damaging to a brain the more normal it is. You're not going to find that out with your study patients."

He sighed, "well what do you think I'm going to do? Inject perfectly healthy people with the drug just to see if they get a brain tumor?"

House nodded, "that sounds about right."

He shook his head, "House, I know you're something of a maverick, but even you aren't going to find a single healthy person to test the drugs on."

House glared.

"Wanna bet?"

He glared right back, "if you don't… influence… them, in any way. And it had better not be Foreman you're thinking of giving the drugs to."

House nodded, "if I do, and they get a brain tumor, you'll be able to admit their results?"

He nodded, "as long as you make sure they are informed of the risks."

House nodded, "good."

He started to limp out.

"House?"

He turned around, looking at Schmitt.

"I hope you don't find anything."

House shook his head, "relax. The tumor cleared within days of her stopping the drug. And if I'm right, it's still safe to give to more advanced Huntington's cases."

He nodded, "I'll have a supply of the drug sent to your office."

House sat at his desk, tapping his fingers on the glass surface.

Schmitt was right.

He wasn't going to find any healthy person willing to take the drug.

He had learned from the stunt with Von-Lieberman that he couldn't inject coma guy and have a neurologist accept the results…

Oh.

Duh. The stunt with Von-Lieberman.

He reached into the fridge the meds had come in, and stared at the clear liquid for a while.

Finally, he stood, putting it back into the fridge, and went to get an IV kit.

House sighed, reaching for the remote with his left hand.

He missed, and tried again, with the same result.

He frowned, and tried to squeeze his hand into a fist.

It worked, but it was clumsy, and his whole arm shook and jerked.

Lovely.

Well, at least it was his left.

He wouldn't have trouble putting the IV's in.

He glanced up at the IV pole, and sighed.

Something told him Wilson would give him a lecture of epic proportions when he asked the oncologist for the brain scan—he would ask Thirteen or Foreman, but that would make the results less trustworthy.

God, his head hurt.

The day after that, he failed to see a gurney turning onto the hallway he was on, and got practically run over.

"House!"

Chase's voice.

He slowly sat up, grunting painfully.

"House, did you even see the gurney coming?"

House looked at the blond, and shook his head. Chase's face bobbed out of his vision like it was a ping-pong ball and he was a cat with one of those big plastic cones on.

Chase helped him up, and gripped his shoulder, as he stumbled.

House shook him off, and limped away.

He had at least two tumors now. That should be enough, even if they were small and localized.

Damn, his head hurt.

He was sitting in his office, because Wilson was meeting with a patient, when suddenly…. He couldn't see.

Well… shit.

He fumbled for the phone, but it wasn't there.

He didn't have his cellphone.

Dammit!

He sighed, and gripped the edge of the table.

It was hours later, when someone entered the office.

He raised his head off the desk.

"Uh," said the person, "you're blue."

House frowned.

"Cyanotic blue?"

There was a hand on his forehead.

"House, you're freezing," Foreman's voice.

House nodded, "not surprising."

There was a pause. House could imagine Foreman staring at him.

"You're taking the drug."

"It needs to get admitted to the trial. I cut a deal. If I could get a neurologically healthy person to take the drug, with informed consent, and they got a tumor, they would be able to admit the results."

Hands were gripping his shoulders, now.

"You can't see, can you?"

He shook his head.

"You need to stop taking it. Now."

House nodded, "I already did. Hard to insert a needle when you can't see the veins."

One of the hands moved from his shoulder to his cheek, again checking the temperature of his skin.

"House, you're hypothermic."

He nodded, "you already said that."

Foreman's hands left, and the footsteps retreated, and then came back.

Something wrapped around his shoulders.

"Do you feel cold?"

"I feel chilled, but not freezing."

The door opened, "what's going on?"

Wilson. Thank god.

"He took the drug," said Foreman.

A pause.

House grimaced, bracing himself for the lecture on self destruction.

It didn't come.

"I assume you need me to scan your brain, which is why you paged me when I was with a patient?"

House nodded.

"Foreman."

"Right."

House heard Foreman's footsteps leaving, and a chair dragging across the floor.

Hands gripped his, gently.

"House," said Wilson, quietly, "I guess you're probably expecting rationalization man to save the day again?"

House sighed, "I knew what I was doing. I don't need the lecture."

"I can't give you a lecture, House. Because I have utterly no idea why you did this."

House's mouth dropped open, and he laughed.

"Since when does that stop you?"

Wilson sighed.

"I don't get it, but compared to some of the other things you've done to yourself… Thirteen recovered completely. You did this to prove something to help people, and you'll be fine. I don't get it, but I'm okay with it."

House nodded.

"So you want me to get a scan of your head?"

House nodded, clumsily pulling the blanket or whatever it was closer around himself.

Wilson's hand rested against his forehead.

"Did Foreman take your temperature?"

House shook his head.

"My mental processing is fine, not sluggish, and I'm not confused. I'm cold, but I'm not dangerously cold."

He heard Wilson sigh, "okay. I'll go get that scan set up."

House nodded, and listened to Wilson walk out.

Half an hour later, he was lying in the scanner, staying stiller than he ever had before. He had to get the results to be as clear and undisputable as possible.

Then he could stop taking the drug, get the radiation, and everything would clear up.

House groaned.

His arm hurt.

He ached all over.

What the hell?

He was lying on something flat.

He couldn't get his brain to focus right… he didn't remember what had happened. He felt… foggy.

"Hello?"

"Unn…"

"Can you tell me your name?"

Could he?

What was…

"Grg…"

"Sorry?"

Why wasn't his mouth working right?

He started to panic, but a hand gripped his shoulder, as he tried to sit up, but couldn't, which only made him panic more, "it's okay. Calm down. You just had a seizure, confusion, motor problems, and memory impairment are all normal. Calm down."

He took a deep breath.

"Can you tell who I am?"

He didn't… the voice wasn't registering…

"No…"

"You don't recognize me?"

He scrunched up his face and lied, "vision's blurry."

"You might have hit your head. You had a few seizures in the week after the bus crash, right?"

He nodded, "who is this?"

"Kutner."

"Oh. Get Foreman or Wilson… I don't need you hovering."

He heard Kutner leave, and sighed, cradling his arm close to his chest as he slowly sat up.

He heard Foreman's footsteps enter, and then a hand on his shoulder.

"Kutner said you had a seizure."

House nodded, "it's no big deal. People with past brain injuries are much more likely to get seizures from other neurological problems."

"Your wrist okay?"

"Hurts."

Hands gently pulled the arm away from his chest, making House wince and bite his lip.

Foreman sighed, "I think it's broken."

House nodded.

"Wilson gave you radiation?"

House shook his head, "one of the other oncologists, some guy that specializes in neurological stuff."

"Okay. Vision better yet?"

"Not yet. But the left-side coordination improved."

"You're blue again."

House shrugged, and winced at the motion.

"Come on," said Foreman, "I'll get this set for you."

House nodded, and allowed Foreman to help him up.

Three days later, Wilson knocked on House's door.

He got the typical reply for him to open the door himself, although it sounded like it was coming from father away than usual.

He unlocked it, and came in.

House wasn't in the livingroom, bathroom, or kitchen.

He knocked gently on the closed bedroom door.

"Come in."

He pushed the door open, and blinked.

House was sitting on the bed, in a large nest of blankets and pillows, practically swaddled in a large quilt.

His head turned towards Wilson, but his eyes didn't meet his friend's, didn't focus on any point.

Wilson stared.

"It's… it's not getting better."

"It's been three days."

"Thirteen took two to be completely better."

"Thirteen has Huntington's. My theory was that it affects healthy brains worse than diseased ones. Of course I'm going to take longer."

Wilson walked in, and sat down on the bed.

House again followed him with his face, but his eyes remained unfocused.

Wilson reached over, gently touching the side of his friend's face.

"What's with all the bedding?"

"Seizures. Already broke my wrist when I had one at the hospital. Didn't exactly have bed rails lying around, so I just pilled the stuff up on either side so I wouldn't fall off the bed."

Wilson sighed.

"Maybe we should give you another dose of radiation?"

"You're the oncologist."

Wilson nodded, though House couldn't see it.

"We should try that."

House shrugged, and allowed Wilson to help him off the bed.

He seemed unsteady, and held on to Wilson's hands harder then he really needed to for direction.

"House?"

"Sorry," muttered House, stumbling heavily.

His head was down, and he seemed disoriented.

"House, are you having trouble with your balance?"

House shook his head, "just… disoriented."

Wilson helped him sit, and pulled a chair over, sitting in front of his friend and holding on to House's hands.

House still had his head down.

"House?"

"Think… I'm having a temporal lobe seizure."

Wilson sighed, and continued to hold his friend's hands.

Eventually, House raised his head, getting to his feet.

"Better?"

House nodded, seeming much clearer.

He followed Wilson out with a hand on the younger doctor's arm, and pulled on a sweater Wilson handed him, because apparently he looked cold again.

Wilson sighed, as House's phone rang during the procedure.

He picked it up, and opened it, "Dr. House's phone, Dr. Wilson speaking."

"This is Dr. Schmitt. Do you know what Dr. House's status is?"

"The left side coordination improved, but nothing else so far, and he's having seizures."

"Is he alright right now?" asked Schmitt, sounding alarmed.

"Yes, he's okay. He's just getting a second dose of radiation and is under anesthesia."

"Oh," said Schmitt, "well, when he's awake, could you please tell him that I searched the records of previous trials, and he was right, the side effects were more pronounced the less advanced the disease was."

"I'll tell him."

"Thank him, too."

"Right."

Schmitt hung up.

Wilson sighed, and shook his head when Stevenson looked at him questioningly.

House had a seizure before he woke from the anesthesia, which really kind of freaked Wilson out.

Especially the loud, shaking breaths afterwards, and the blood that came out of House's mouth.

He sat by the bed, and gently wiped the bloody drool off his friend's chin, prying House's mouth open enough to see that the older doctor had bitten his tongue.

Wilson sighed, and put the tissue under the corner of his friend's mouth, to soak up further drool.

House woke not too long after that, still groggy from the anesthesia, but coherent, and confused about why his mouth was full of blood.

Wilson told him Schmitt had called, and what he had said.

House nodded sleepily, spitting blood out onto a tissue Wilson held against his lips.

A week later, Wilson came into House's bedroom, and sat down on his friend's bed.

House was sitting with his ipod in his hands, spinning the wheel and clicking it, then spinning it again.

Wilson reached over, gently taking the player out of his friend's hands, and pulling the earbuds out of his friend's ears.

House turned his head towards him, irritated.

"There hasn't been any improvement in four days. The tumors are gone, but there hasn't been any improvement since they disappeared. You're still having seizures, you're still not regulating your body temperature, and your vision still hasn't come back."

House shook his head, "it's not dark anymore. The peripheral vision still is, but the central vision is just… hazy and blurry… to the point of uselessness."

"House. There hasn't been any more improvement. That happened four days ago. I know because you flinched when I waved my arm in front of your face."

"I know."

Wilson stared at him.

"You knew that this could happen, didn't you? You knew there could be permanent damage!"

House sighed, and turned his head away from Wilson.

"House! Why would you do that?!"

House and turned back to his friend.

"I don't know," he said, quietly.

Wilson opened his mouth, but he couldn't think of anything to say.

"It's… it's possible I'm not completely objective when it comes to things involving Foreman," he said, even more softly than before.

Wilson stared.

"You did this… despite the risk… because you didn't want him to feel guilty that he screwed up any possibility of the side effect being recognized. You didn't want him to decided he had to fix that, and screw up his career even more than he already had."

House turned away.

Wilson reached over, lightly gripping House's hand.

House did not pull it away.

Wilson squeezed it, gently, and House finally turned back to him.

"What?" asked House, "you're not mad?"

Wilson shook his head, though House couldn't see it, "no. maybe a little exasperated. But this wasn't pure self-destruction. Even if it was a stupid thing to do."

"It was irrational. I don't even need Foreman to have a medical license, I could employ him as a secretary and still have him do exactly what he does now. I'm not getting anything out this except brain damage," said House, pulling his hand away.

Wilson smiled.

"You're taking care of someone you care about, House. It's… something I don't think you're all that unfamiliar with."

House blinked, startled, turning his head back to face his friend.

Wilson looked down at the bed, their hands a few inches apart, then back up at his friend's face.

"Thank you for trying to save her."

House swallowed.

Then he gripped Wilson's hand.

Wilson smiled, brown eyes relieved, and squeezed in return.

Thirteen sighed, leaning on the table in the differential room, "where's House? he hasn't been here all week…"

Kutner and Foreman looked at each other.

Taub, who Kutner had told, spoke, "no idea… and honestly, I don't care."

Thirteen rolled her eyes, and went back to reading a magazine.

taub followed Foreman into the hall, then into the bathroom.

"Are you seriously not going to tell her?"

Foreman sighed.

"House told me he didn't want her to know."

"Why the hell not?"

"I don't know. He said he didn't do it for her. I do not, and probably never will, understand him."

taub snorted, "well, she's gonna notice he's blind… not to mention if he has a seizure or cold spell in front of her."

Foreman sighed, rubbing his forehead, "I know."

taub sighed, "just tell her."

"House'll be pissed at me."

"Why do you care if he's pissed at you or not?"

Foreman looked at the shorter doctor.

"Because I don't want him making my life miserable."

"He never makes your life miserable. You always say he's going to, and he never does. He's either scared of you, or he respects and likes you. I seriously doubt it's the first one. Maybe you don't tell her. You tell him that she's gonna find out one way or another. You act like his equal instead of his subordinate. But just trying to put it off is stupid."

Foreman sighed, watching taub leave the bathroom.

He shook his head, and walked over to a urinal.

Foreman let himself in, when House didn't answer the door.

He walked into the bedroom, and found House deeply asleep, a trail of bloody saliva sluggishly drooling out of the corner of his mouth.

It didn't take a neurologist to figure out that House had just had a seizure—although if it did, Foreman still could have been able to tell.

He sat on the edge of the bed, and waited.

Eventually, House woke, exhausted and weak.

Foreman gripped his shoulder, as House slowly sat up.

"You okay?"

House nodded a little, his head hanging down.

Foreman got up, and came back with a glass of water.

House washed his mouth out with it, and handed the glass back to Foreman.

"Thanks," he muttered, "Foreman?"

"Yeah, it's me. When are you coming back to work?"

"I don't know. Maybe in a week.

"Thirteen isn't blind anymore."

House looked at him, "uh, yeah… I got that memo already, thanks…"

"Meaning she's going to notice the fact that you *are*."

House sighed, rubbing his face with one hand.

"Yeah," he muttered, "I know."

"So… you're just not gonna tell her? Let her figure it out on her own? Let he feel guilty because something that happened to her made something bad happen to you?"

House shook his head, "the thing that happened to her didn't cause what happened to me. I knew it was possible—likely, even—that I would end up with more damage than she did."

"So tell her that."

House was silent for a while.

Then he nodded, finally.

"You want a ride to the hospital?"

House hesitated, then nodded.

He fumbled for his cane, which was leaning against the bedside table, and knocked it to the floor.

Foreman picked it up, and put it in the older doctor's flailing hand.

House's hand closed around the wood, and sighed, reaching towards Foreman, "haven't quite got the layout down yet…"

Foreman gripped House's hand, and placed it on his arm.

House looked… calmer.

Foreman walked with him out through the living room, down the steps, and into the car waiting out front.

"Why did you feel such a need to prove the drugs were dangerous that you risked your brain—your life—to prove it?" asked Foreman, starting the car.

The car was silent for almost ten minutes.

"Because you are a good person. Because you wouldn't have let it stand. And you would have lost your license. And I would have lost my neurologist. And that just would have been annoying."

Foreman pulled over, and put the parking break on, so he could stare at House without getting into an accident.

"What?"

House sighed, running his hand through his hair, and tapping his cane on the floor of the car, "I didn't want to have to find a new neurologist. More specifically, I didn't want to find a new neurologist that could get to the point you've reached as a diagnostician. That could stand up to me and be right, and I could actually trust the opinion of. That could be objective even when freaking the hell out. That last one, I really need you here for. Because the things that make you freak the hell out are often the same things that make me freak the hell out. And you're better at staying objective at those times than I am. I'd rather be blind than have you lose your license."

Foreman sighed.

He reached across the space between the seats, resting his hand on House's arm.

House covered it with his own, and gripped it, though more because he was trying to figure out what it was than because he wanted to hold Foreman's hand.

"On second thought… just… drop me off in Wilson's office and tell her. I don't want to face that."

"Okay," said Foreman, blandly.

House let go of the younger doctor's hand.

Foreman started the car.

House curled on Wilson's office couch, and rested his head on the pillow at one end of it.

He must have slept for a while, because the next thing he knew, there was a hand gently shaking his shoulder, and a familiar voice calling his name.

"Mmm…" he mumbled, "Wilson?"

"Yeah, House," said Wilson's voice, as House slowly sat up, rubbing his bad leg, "it's me."

House reached out towards his friend, disoriented.

Wilson gripped the hand, and reached up, gently brushing the hair out of House's face.

"You okay?"

House shrugged.

Wilson sighed, and sat on the couch next to his friend, still holding on to House's hand.

"House," he said, quietly, "it's not going to get better."

"I know," whispered House, "I know."

Wilson squeezed House's hand.

"Are you okay?"

House was silent for a while, didn't respond.

Then, suddenly, he made a kind of choked, upset sound, and shook his head.

Wilson sighed, and wrapped his arms around his friend, "okay."

"Wilson?" asked House after a while.

"Yeah?"

"Can I stay with you for a while?"

"Um… actually, can I stay with you? Living in amber's apartment… I… I just can't… everywhere I turn, there's her books, her dishes, her makeup, her CD's, her laptop, her… she's everywhere, House. I can't stand it anymore."

House nodded.

Wilson sighed with relief, "thank you."

House held on to Wilson's arm.

House's strategy so far has been simply to stay on his bed, and not move except for food, drink or bowel movements.

He's already banged up his shins, and is not much the wiser about how to get around his apartment.

It doesn't help that it's really messy, and there's stuff all over the floor.

So when Wilson moves in, and starts cleaning things up, House doesn't complain.

He doesn't taunt, he doesn't joke.

He just sits, perched on the couch where Wilson put him, turning his head to follow his friend's movements.

Eventually, Wilson finishes putting all the useless books and printed journals away, and takes House's hand, crouching in front of the sofa, "you want anything to eat?"

House shrugs.

"Come on," says Wilson, squeezing the hand, "I'll make anything you want."

House shakes his head.

Wilson frowns, "what's wrong? You not hungry?"

"I'm hungry… I just… there's not much in the kitchen."

"Oh," says Wilson, relived, "well that's easily fixable. I'll just go get whatever's needed."

He starts to get up, but is stopped by House's grip tightening on his hand, "no!"

"Oh," says Wilson, crouching again, and this time taking both of House's hands, which are cool to the touch, "okay. I'll stay here, then, and order out."

House's head is hanging down, and Wilson can tell he feels really ashamed by the "weakness" of being scared to be alone.

Wilson lets go, and takes the couch blanket, wrapping it around House's shoulders, and pulling it tight.

"What do you want? Chinese? Pizza?"

"Pizza sounds good," says House, almost apologetically.

Wilson takes his hand and squeezes it, "pizza it is, then."

He went and ordered what they usually got, and sat back down on the couch next to his friend.

House turned towards him, but the blue eyes didn't focus at all.

Wilson couldn't help himself.

He waved his hand in front of House's face.

Nothing, except a slight recoil from his friend.

He sighed.

"What?" asked House.

"You're blind," said Wilson, quietly.

"Uh," said House, frowning, "yes…?"

Wilson put his hand against House's forehead.

He was still quite cool, despite the blanket.

Wilson got up, and House's head turned to follow him.

"Just getting another blanket."

House stood, and reached out towards his friend.

Wilson touched his hand, and House moved it up to grip Wilson's arm.

Wilson bit his lip.

He couldn't help it.

Watching his friend… he started to cry.

House frowned, turning his head towards the source of the uneven breathing.

His hands reached out, and found the sides of Wilson's face.

Wilson stood, unable to take his eyes off House's face, as the older doctor touched Wilson's cheeks with his thumbs, confirming that Wilson really was crying.

Then they wiped the tears away, though his hands stayed gently pressed to the sides of Wilson's face.

Wilson closed his eyes, and cried.

He doesn't want to watch House struggle his way through the five stages of another disability.

He sinks to his knees, because he's now crying so hard he can't keep standing.

House's hands slide off his cheeks as he sinks, and House frowns.

Wilson cries even harder.

House awkwardly sits in front of Wilson, reaching out again, searching for his friend.

Wilson takes his hands, and holds on to them, as he cries.

"I'm a horrible person," he sobs, finally.

House frowns, "why the hell would you say that?"

"I… I can't see you though this again. You killed yourself for me, and I can't even stand to watch you through this again."

House lets go of Wilson's hands, and grips the sides of his friend's face.

"That's because I was a horrible person last time. But there's a difference, Wilson. It's not gonna be like last time, because of that difference."

Wilson sniffed, his eyes fixed on his friend's face.

"Why?"

"Because I *chose* this."

Wilson started to sob again.

He heard House sigh.

"Yeah, I'm gonna be upset, and depressed. Yeah, I'm probably gonna be cranky. But I'm not gonna be the bastard I was last time. I promise."

Wilson cried.

The pizza eventually comes, and House sits with Wilson on the couch, eating it.

He does pretty well, although there are globs of tomato sauce and a few stray bits of topping on his shirt, but Wilson doesn't mention that.

The doorbell rings, when they're almost done, and Wilson gets up to answer it.

He turns and looks at House, "it's Foreman."

House nods, and Wilson opens the door.

Foreman nods to Wilson, then walks in past him, going over to stand by House.

"She thinks I'm lying. You gotta tell her it. Or at least tell her you told me to say what I said."

House scowled.

"Remind me why I chose such a cynical staff?"

"Because you wanted people to question everything."

"Oh, right."

Foreman snorted.

"Gimme your phone."

Foreman opened it, and pressed it into House's hand.

House frowned, moving his thumb over the buttons.

He handed it back to Foreman, "dial her number."

He heard beeping, and then the phone was put into his outstretched hand again.

"Hello?"

'House?'

"Yeah. I told Foreman to say that. It's true. I just didn't want to deal with you."

A pause.

'How do I know you're not lying?'

"You don't. But you might want to think… which is more likely? Me doing something insane because it's the right thing to do, or me doing something melodramatic for someone I barely have a vested interest in?"

A pause.

'The first.'

"No kidding."

House shut the phone, and held it back in Foreman's general direction.

He felt it being taken, and let go.

Wilson opened his eyes, frowning sleepily, as he sat up on House's couch.

Something had woken him… it could be the pain in his back, from sleeping on the lumpy couch… but he had the vague impression that it had been a sound that woke him.

It came again.

A soft, whimpering sigh.

He got up, and padded into the bedroom.

House was curled on the bed, face distressed, hands twisting the blankets, making soft, unhappy sounds as he slept.

Wilson came in, and sat on the edge of the bed, his hand resting on House's shoulder.

There was maybe a slight diminishment of the twisting, but nothing else changed.

Wilson shook House's, gently, and then a little more vigorously.

House whimpered, moving his feet, and slowly opened his eyes.

Then his breath caught, and he raised his hands to his face, wearing an expression of horror and fear.

Wilson gripped his shoulders, quickly, "House? House, hey, it's okay."

House calmed some, but his breathing was still coming fast and erratic.

Wilson brushed the tears off his friend's cheeks, "it's okay. You were just dreaming. Nothing was real. It's okay."

House reached out towards him, and they sat, basically holding each other's heads.

Finally, House leaned towards Wilson, and rested his head on his friend's chest.

Wilson blinked down at the older doctor.

"Are you okay?"

House nodded, "bad dreams. Except… not exactly just dreams."

"What do you mean?"

"I didn't dream the crash."

"Oh… you… dream… about it?"

House nodded, "of course I dream about it. And the last two weeks, I've been dreaming that I woke up in the hospital blind."

Wilson rested his hand on the back of House's head.

"I'm sorry."

House straightened, in an instant, all emotion gone behind the mask of sarcasm and bitterness.

"You didn't cause any of it," he said, plainly, and curled back up on the bed.

"Out."

Wilson sighed, and left.

Twenty minutes later, the sounds were back.

He shuts his eyes, and willed them to go away.

But they never did.

Finally, around two in the morning, after realizing he was never going to be able to get back to sleep as long as House was making the sounds, got up, and walked into his friend's bedroom.

"House," he said, quietly, shaking his friend's shoulder, "I need you to wake up, okay?"

House made a sound halfway between a whimper and a sigh, and opened his eyes.

He didn't seem as confused as last time, at least about what was going on.

"Why are you in here again?"

"Because I couldn't sleep with you making all that noise."

House frowned, "noise?"

"You kept like… crying."

House reached up, and found that Wilson was right, his face was wet.

He heard a sigh, and a tissue was pressed into his hand.

He ignored it, and wiped his face on the sleeves of his nightshirt.

Wilson's hand touched his face, he flinched.

"Sorry," said Wilson, "I just… you… House…"

"I don't even remember what I was dreaming. I don't need to be comforted."

"I'm not comforting you."

House frowned, "then what are you doing?"

"House… I can I stay here? Can I sit, and watch until you fall asleep? Can I… just… can I see that you're okay?"

House sighed. Wilson wasn't comforting him. Wilson was trying to comfort himself.

He nodded, "don't see why not…"

Wilson bit his lip, and stayed sitting on the edge of House's bed, until the older doctor had drifted off again, snoring lightly, and drooling a bit.

Then he got up, and curled back up on the couch, and managed to fall asleep before the noises started again.

Days later, House tripped.

And what he tripped over gave a loud grunt of pain.

He sat up, face scrunched in some combination of confusion and irritation, "why are you on the floor?"

He could hear slightly unsteady breathing coming from the direction of the thing he had tripped over.

"My back went out…" came Wilson's voice, wavering and full of pain, "I can't get up."

There was a silence.

House snorted.

"Roll over."

"I can't," said Wilson, almost desperately.

House reached over, finding his friend's hip, and scooting himself to sit closer, "it's not that hard."

He helped Wilson roll onto his stomach, and, briefly running his hands over the surface of Wilson's back to get a general idea of the geography, slid his hand up under Wilson's shirt, which wasn't… strictly… necessary, and felt down his friend's spine. There were no irregularities on the spine, which was good.

Wilson whimpered quietly, however, when House's hand brushed over the muscles to the left of the spine.

He ran his hand over them, and found, by the tensing of Wilson's body beneath his hand, the spot that was causing Wilson pain.

There was no knot, or anything palpitatable, which probably meant a strain.

Wilson made the same whimpering sound again, "House…"

House removed his hand from under Wilson's shirt.

"You're too old to sleep on the couch," he pronounced.

Wilson moaned, "well right now, anything other than the floor would be very inviting."

"Nope," said House, almost cheerily, "won't do you any good to let this seize up. Come on, up you get."

Wilson moaned again, but didn't do anything to protest House's helping him up other than to cry out in pain.

His arms ended up over his friend's shoulders, his head buried in his friend's chest, panting, as he held himself up on the older doctor.

He heard a chuckle, but didn't care, as House slowly moved them towards the bedroom.

Wilson sat on the bed, dizzy from the pain.

"House," he mumbled, watching the older doctor stand, awkward, "I'm not gonna be able to get up if I lie down again."

"I know," said House, with a smirk, "lie down. If it's needed, I can have Kutner bring a muscle relaxant from the hospital."

Wilson reached for his friend's hand, gripping it.

House raised an eyebrow, "I know where you are. You don't have to hold on to me."

"I know."

House pulled his hand away, "Wilson… stop it, okay? I'm not that pathetic. I'm not lying—I'm fine. So stop it."

"I know," said, Wilson, quietly, "I told you. I'm not trying to comfort you."

House sat down on the bed, and touched Wilson's face, frowning.

The younger doctor had wet on his cheeks.

House sighed, withdrawing his hands.

"What the hell is with you?"

"I…" Wilson's voice was barely audible, "I lost amber and I can't even stand to look at you like this."

House sighed again, heavily.

"Which translates into you being all clingy… how?"

"I don't want to lose you. But it's like you've lost yourself."

Wilson flinched, as House touched his cheek for aim, then slapped it.

"I'm legally blind, I have seizures, and I get cold sometimes. I am not drooling and in a coma. I am not cognitively impaired; I am not a different person. I have not "lost myself", just because I can't drive. I can tell you're there, I can see that you're wearing a blue shirt. I can't make out your face, but you're wearing a blue shirt, dark pants, and sitting on maroon sheets that you put on my bed yesterday. I tripped over you because I have no peripheral vision and I thought I knew where everything was—I wasn't expecting a human to be lying on my floor."

Wilson hung his head.

"Stop trying to be poetic and dramatic. I'm weak about losing Foreman; I already had that happen once, and I didn't want it to happen again. So I took the logical action that would stop it from being a possibility. It was stupid, not insane. *You* should be *happy*… I did something *human*! That's a major triumph for you, isn't it?!"

Wilson stared at his friend.

"I sacrificed for another human being! That's what you've always wanted me to do, isn't it?! Oh, wait! I did that, for you, and you left! I hated amber! I wanted you back, and she was taking you away, and you loved her and you were happy! Do you know why I was at that bar? Of course not! You never thought to ask if I remembered that bit! Well I did! I remembered that I was going there because I was giving up! You had a right to be happy, you were right, all I do is spread misery! So I was stepping out of your life, Wilson! I was letting you go because I was going to lose you anyway. I never wanted to see amber's face again, but I killed myself to save her for your happiness, Wilson. And you left."

Wilson continued to stare, utterly speechless.

"I sent Stacy away so she could be happy with Mark, and you didn't even consider that I actually did it because I wanted her to be happy. I nearly killed myself—I *did* kill myself—trying to save your happiness, and you told me I spread misery and we were never really friends. I do this, and you tell me I lost myself. And in-between you lecture me about not being human and not being capable of sacrifice."

"You know who's the one that's not capable of something, Wilson? It's you. You're not capable of seeing the nose in front of your face, if it fits your world-view that it isn't there. But this… what's going on now… is something you can't simply say is not happening. You can't rationalize it and say, "oh, House just tripped over me because cripples like falling". You can't do that. It's something that you don't like, and you have no power over. You can't control this. You tell me I have to be in control of everything, but that's you. You can't stand anything happening that you have no control over."

He got up, and limped to the door, then stopped, and turned back towards the younger doctor, "grow up, Wilson. Stop having relationships with people who need you more than you need them. Stop cheating to show yourself you're still the one in control when they stop needing you. And stop pretending I'm pathetic. I care about you, Wilson. But I don't need you."

Wilson closed his eyes, unable to stop crying.

About half an hour later, he heard the sound of the shower running.

Eventually it turned off, and House limped in, wrapped in a towel, hair wet and sticking up in random spikes.

He sort of squinted at the bed, then reached over, as though checking he had the depth right, then sat down next to Wilson.

"Are you still crying?"

"No."

"Good."

They were both silent for a while.

House finally sighed, "does what I said freak you out?"

"Yes."

"Here's a newsflash, Wilson: we've been friends for almost twenty years. I'm not going anywhere."

"Why?"

"The same reason we're friends at all."

"Because you're bored?"

House snorted.

"No," he said, flatly, "because if you weren't straight, we'd be more than friends. The same reason I did this just so Foreman would be able to stick around."

With that, he got up, and grabbed a t-shirt out of a hamper and tried to put his foot through it.

"House," said Wilson, quietly.

"What?"

"I…that's a shirt."

A pause.

"Oh."


End file.
